My placid uncle enjoyed the 1990 shore of the lake in a plaid lawn chair. He had a fishing pole with an empty plastic milk jug where the hook would normally be. At night he'd cast the jug out through the evening bugs clouding over the water and it would come down with a hollow splash. Reel in, cast again. Splash. There was a giant lidless jar of Vlasics open beside his chair. He would allow himself a pickle every time he bopped an alligator's head with the jug. Fonk. It was usually pitch dark, but he could tell when he'd succeeded by the sound of thrashing and clapping jaws out in the water. My uncle would crunch a bumpy pickle with his teeth. His large laughs would go out through the marshy air like storks, invisible in the dark as they flew to peck at the lizards' rough green skin. But there came a day when those alligators learned to follow the jug to shore. They slid out of the pale green water, smashed the jar. Pickles slopped out and the label got all wet. Vlasic. My uncle laughed as he ran.
Rick Hale
http://pelicanmagic.blogspot.com
The Journey to the East
Hermann Hesse
Rick Hale
http://pelicanmagic.blogspot.com
The Journey to the East
Hermann Hesse